Chapter 1

“Look, pal, if I wanted an audience, I’d yodel.” I could feel my temper slipping. Damned kids, always so certain they were the next star Armand Bettencourt needed. I was tired of them mobbing my studio, and I damn well wouldn’t put up with one interrupting my vacation. He’d trailed me through the city long enough. If this kept up, I’d have to start using an alias for hotel stays. I have to admit, though, I wouldn’t have thought anyone on the East Coast would recognize me.

I glared back at my young follower. He smirked at me from his perch on the back of the wrought iron park bench across the street. He’d wrapped his arms around his parted knees, offering me a glimpse of the barely covered basket between. Why did hustlers think a man wanted skin-tight shorts that showed everything they were offering? I’d have had more class, if I wanted to sell myself. I turned my attention back to the crumpled tour brochure in my fist. This was my first time in South Carolina, and I was going to enjoy everything that Charleston had to offer.

Besides, who knew when a novel experience might stimulate a director’s creativity?

The tourist brochure suggested that I visit a historic house during the hottest part of the day. I dabbed at the sweat beading on my face with my already damp handkerchief. That would certainly be better than remaining in this oven. I also doubted that my young tag-along would follow me past the ticket booth.

The nearest such house on the map, the Aiken-Rhett House, should be a mere three blocks to the right. I turned resolutely in that direction, ignoring the sticky sheen of sweat, and trudging bravely through the heat waves rising from the sidewalk. After all, as every local had reminded me since my plane touched the ground: it wasn’t the heat that got you, it was the humidity.

Ten minutes of struggling through Charleston’s humidity brought me to my destination, panting and dripping. I’d swear I passed an old lady walking her goldfish in the thick air. The worst thing was that the sweat didn’t evaporate and cool you off. No, it pooled at the small of your back and soaked your clothing, dripped into your eyes and turned your carefully combed hair into a hopeless mess. At home, the heat behaved properly. Stepping into the shade brought cooler air. Here, it just brought darker heat.

I stood at the gate for a long moment, one eyebrow cocked at my destination. The Aiken-Rhett House seemed badly in need of funding. Its peeling plaster walls had once, I thought, been the color of ripe peaches. Patches of it had fallen away in spots, revealing crumbling bricks beneath and making the house look like it was molting.

I slung my camera bag around to my back and climbed the oddly proportioned marble staircase. People must have had smaller feet in those days. White marble, too—must have been a bitch to keep clean. They’d probably had a servant just for that task.

I glanced behind me as I banged the brass knocker against its polished plate. The kid smiled hopefully from beneath a palmetto tree, both thumbs hooked in the waistband of those skin-tight shorts. He flipped his long, black hair back over one shoulder with a move that I had to admit was graceful. And the face beneath that cascade of hair was pretty enough, I’d grant you. Huge eyes, framed by a mass of dark lashes, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. I scowled, a curse rising in my throat.

I swallowed the curse as I heard the massive door creak open before me. A tiny hand appeared at the edge of the wood, and a little old lady peered out at me. She looked as if she might be as old as the house. Perhaps she’d been the original housekeeper. I stared at the door for a moment. I couldn’t see how the old biddy had managed to shift the thick oak slab.

I stepped inside, where a blast of air conditioning hit me like a wall of ice. I could almost feel the sweat freezing over. My clothing crackled as I shifted so she could shut the door behind me. I thought about giving the kid outside a cheery wave, but settled on keeping my eyes firmly on the interior of the house ahead of me. The old lady teetered up yet another small set of white marble steps, explaining that the original citizens of the Holy City (as they termed it) had built upwards to catch the sea breezes. In a proper Charlestonian mansion, the first floor was actually the second. The lower floor held the kitchens and storage rooms.